


and indeed there will be time

by plumtrees



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 13:56:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6807781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumtrees/pseuds/plumtrees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Between volleyball and the looming end of their high school years, Hanamaki thinks he’s already dealing with more than enough, thank you very much.</p><p>Unfortunately, no one else gets the memo.</p><p>-</p><p>Alternatively: “I am not in love with my best friend!” says Hanamaki Takahiro. Nobody buys his bullshit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and indeed there will be time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tookumade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tookumade/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY SAN!!!! I REJECT YOUR REJECTION OF MY LOVE AND WORSHIP. *leaves you a thousand hugs*
> 
> (Title from _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_ by T.S. Eliot)

Hanamaki collapses to the floor with a groan, quickly covering his eyes with his towel. The world is spinning and he thinks he’s going to puke or faint or both, and the lights aren’t helping settle his stomach any.

He blindly gropes through the contents of his sports bag and pulls out his water bottle, snapping the top open and upending the contents into his mouth.

A drop lands on his tongue, then nothing.

He wants to cry, really, or send the damn thing flying across the gym, but he gathers enough sense and maturity to just glare at the bottle, like the power of his righteous anger will magically condense the air inside it into something that can save his parched throat.

Instead, a better miracle comes, the shadow of a broad torso blocking out the lights and casting over him, hand outstretched.

“I’m headed to the fountain. You want me to refill yours?” 

Hanamaki gasps, what he hopes can pass off as a desperate _yes_ , and Matsukawa doesn’t even wait for him to hand it over, bending lower to take it right out of his hand. His eyes follow him until he’s out of sight, frowning at his easy gait.

 _How is he not even sweating?_ he scoffs in his head, but it’s quickly silenced when he looks around to find that none of the seniors has it bad as he does.

“You need to work on your stamina, Makki.” Oikawa pipes up from beside him, ever-so-helpful, and Hanamaki would have ignored it if not for the teasing follow-up of _wouldn’t want your kouhai to get ahead of you now_. Hanamaki aims a kick at him for that one. Oikawa only huffs and purposefully squeaks his shoes as he walks away, aggravating Hanamaki’s headache.

He’s not entirely sure if he fell asleep like that, but the next thing he knows, something cool is pressing against his temple. He only has to take a glimpse of thick brows and curled hair messier than usual and the Hallellujah chorus starts playing in the background. He takes the proffered water bottle with a mumbled _thanks_ but frowns when the weight of the bottle rolls in his hands, the water sloshing around indicating that it isn’t full.

“You couldn’t have filled it all the way up?”

Matsukawa shrugs. “I got thirsty on the way back. Call it payment.”

“Wow, and I thought you were doing it out of the goodness of your own heart.”

Matsukawa’s lip curls in mock disgust but reaches a hand out anyway to help him sit up, and Hanamaki takes several long gulps of water as soon as he’s upright. He feels the prickling heat of a stare on his back, but when he turns to look, he just barely catches Oikawa’s eyes darting away.

It’s only then that he notices that he’s still holding Matsukawa’s hand.

 

-

 

“We’re not dating.” he declares as soon as Oikawa corners him on the way to the showers, already taking Iwaizumi’s absence as a bad sign.

“Does _he_ know that?”

Hanamaki blinks slowly. “What?”

Oikawa quirks an eyebrow. “I just don’t want there to be any miscommunication between you two. I’m not just saying this for the sake of team dynamics. I don’t want either of you getting hurt.”

On cue, Iwaizumi turns the corner, pausing when he catches them both. His gaze nervously swivels between them and Hanamaki sneers, says loud enough for only Oikawa to hear,

“Do me a favor and follow your own advice.”

 

-

 

Hanamaki can’t exactly blame Oikawa for being cautious. He and Matsukawa have always pushed the boundaries of skinship, touches lingering far longer than what’s probably socially passable, to the point that even _Iwaizumi_ has started shooting them suspicious looks. Hanamaki personally thinks it isn’t an issue, especially if Matsukawa’s reciprocating and—on the rare and surprising occasions—even initiating.

Still, it’s hard to really figure out what’s going on in his head most of the time. From the get-go, Hanamaki had assumed Matsukawa was one of those perpetually silent, brooding types; quickly averted when he opened his mouth to make a joke that cost Hanamaki a few punishment laps because he’d laughed loud enough to disrupt practice. He initially emanated an off-putting vibe, with that intimidating height and a resting I-Don’t-Give-A-Fuck face, but was the one who put an arm around Hanamaki’s shoulders and gently ushered him to the infirmary when his finger bent too far back after a bad block.

Matsukawa Issei is, and has always been, a walking contradiction, and here they are two years later and Hanamaki still finds himself clueless at times.

Like right now. His head is on Matsukawa’s shoulder, watching him play Tidus’ story mode on Dissidia. It’s a normal scenario for them, but Oikawa’s warning is stubbornly hovering over his head. He tugs on a loose thread on his pants, eyes following the sparks flying in the screen, trying to string together the words in his mind.

“You know if I’m overstepping, you can tell me, right?”

Matsukawa answers with a nonchalant hum, the lollipop stick in his mouth clacking against his teeth as he shifts it to the other side. On the screen, the battle ends after Matsukawa uses his Limit Break. He turns to him during the cutscene and Hanamaki lifts his head, meeting his gaze.

He’s too close. Hanamaki can smell the artificial strawberry in his breath, can even feel every exhale on his face. Hanamaki isn’t sure if it’s always been this way or if he’s only started paying attention today.

“That’s it?”

“What?”

“You’ve been restless since practice ended.” the stick clacks again as it rolls across Matsukawa’s front teeth. “Was that all you wanted to tell me?”

His stare slips lower, drawn to the plastic hanging out of Matsukawa’s mouth and belatedly realizes it’s not a good idea; not with the way his bottom lip sinks beneath the weight of the stick, plush and pink and tempting.

Matsukawa’s attention is torn away when the music changes, the victory theme playing as he sifts through his winnings, none of them too special. The conversation seems to have ended then, because Matsukawa continues playing, moving Tidus’ piece until he encounters an enemy, the graphics swirling to transition into a battle.

Hanamaki bottles up the sigh. It’s hard to settle back into cuddling when the atmosphere is this tense. Or maybe it’s just him? Matsukawa’s completely focused on his game, thumbs masterfully snapping between buttons. The rest of his body is jarringly lax in comparison, shoulders hanging low, lids resting halfway over his eyes.

He tries to imitate it, relaxes into the soundtrack of Matsukawa’s breathing and the battle theme crackling from the console speakers. Matsukawa shifts under him but he moves only to slide up a little higher on his headboard, easing the angle of Hanamaki’s neck, the curve of his shoulder a solid, reassuring presence under his cheek.

 _This is fine._ he thinks. _Not like we can afford to consider that right now anyway._

 

-

 

“I know you’re aiming to get into a top university.”

Hanamaki’s eye twitches when she clicks her pen for the forty-fifth time. Forty-six now. Forty-seven—

“Honestly, at this time in your life you should be more focused on your future. This,” and here she waves her hand carelessly, like she’s sweeping dust off her files, “being an athlete, what is it going to do for you after you graduate high school?”

He smiles bitterly, keeps his lips tightly sealed even when the words are fighting their way past his teeth. Future. He’s so sick of that word, can’t even count how many times it’s been thrown at him since before senior year even began. _You need to think of more feasible career options. Surely you’re not thinking of going pro? If you want to pursue volleyball, that’s fine, just don’t put all your eggs in one basket. You need to at least get a college degree._

Nevermind the fact that volleyball gave him the best years of his life, gave him people who’d been there for him when his own parents couldn’t even give him the time of day, that the adrenaline and stinging, reddened patches on his arms and palms were far healthier coping mechanisms than all the other things he’d ever considered.

“I understand.” he murmurs hollowly, and the guidance counselor nods her approval.

He steps out of the counselor’s room to find Matsukawa in the same chair he was sitting in earlier. He’s slumped into the seat, legs obnoxiously splayed like a school delinquent. He’s already in his practice uniform and his head lolls to give him an impatient stare. Hanamaki makes a gesture for _five minutes_ and makes a beeline for the restrooms.

They step into the gym to find Oikawa mid-swing, the ball landing on the opposite court with a monstrous boom, bouncing off the wall with frightening impact. Iwaizumi only greets them with a nod, a small smile, before following right behind Oikawa with a jump serve of his own.

None of the underclassmen seem at all surprised to see them back, and Hanamaki takes great comfort in that more than anything.

 

-

 

“Have you talked to Matsukawa yet?”

Hanamaki wheezes, and the shock at the sudden conversation almost costs him his victory. He quickly surges up to bring their hands back up to the halfway point, grunting with the effort of maintaining a stalemate.

“Did Oikawa put you up to this?”

“No. Just my personal curiosity.”

Hanamaki rolls his eyes, subtly readjusting his elbow to a more favorable angle. “Why does everyone assume I even want to get into a relationship with him? Can’t I just hold his hand and cuddle without wanting to put a ring on him and bang him? Not necessarily in that order.”

“Tell that to your boner whenever Matsukawa strips in the locker room.”

“Ooh, Hajime-kun, you were staring at my crotch?” Hanamaki waggles his brows, then shrieks when Iwaizumi bears down on him, the back of his hand only a few scant centimeters above the table.

“I’m just saying,” Iwaizumi hisses, “it’s your last year. You might regret it if you don’t get your act together soon.”

“Iwaizumi, you’ve never had a relationship, you’re in no position to give advice.” Hanamaki pants, cackling when he successfully pushes Iwaizumi back. He can win this. Iwaizumi’s too distracted. He can actually fucking win this.

“But I know that the time you waste pining could be better spent either moving on or enjoying your new relationship.”

The moment of disbelief is more than enough time for Iwaizumi to pin his hand on the table.

“Looks like we’re studying English today.” Iwaizumi declares triumphantly. Hanamaki whines and bangs his head on his books.

 

-

 

He isn’t allowed to cry.

He can’t. Not when Oikawa’s not even tearing up, when Iwaizumi’s shell-shocked and glaring at thin air. It’s not his long-awaited dream that’s been crushed today. He has absolutely no right to cry.

This is perhaps the last speech he’ll ever hear from the coach but he can’t bear to listen, the words bouncing off the vacuum in his ears. He only knows it’s over when everyone breaks; shoulders hunching inwards, heads bowing, hands coming up to hastily mask the tears. Matsukawa is trembling but he has his chin up, fists clenched tight at his sides, the epitome of dignity. He feels pathetic in comparison.

He almost regrets looking because the tears welling up in his usually dull eyes makes his chest constrict, all the more harder to keep his own emotions in check. He just barely manages in the end and Yuda’s clumsy little speech helps push the tears back where they belong.

He smiles bitterly when their bus drives them to the usual ramen place. It’s only right to end it here, to gather inside the same walls that witnessed three years’ worth of defeated tears, shouts of frustration and promises to do better, to move forward.

Last year, he remembers the third years giving their farewell speeches here too, the ones who cared enough to stay until Spring Tournament. He side-eyes Oikawa but he practically has his face shoved in his bowl, slurping nonstop.

“No parting words, captain?”

The bowl lowers slightly to reveal a face scrunched up, fat tears rolling down his bloated cheeks. For someone so cute, his crying face is the most unfortunate one Hanamaki’s ever seen.

He snatches a few tissues from the rack and shoves them in Oikawa’s direction. “The broth’s salty enough.” 

Oikawa snorts and accepts the tissues anyway.

 

-

 

_Thank you for these three years!_

That fucking _asshole_.

Hanamaki quickly tilts his head up, breathing deeply. His eyes still sting from all the crying he promised he wouldn’t do and he quickly scrubs at them with the side of his hand. Something bumps against his elbow and he glances down to see Matsukawa offering his a handkerchief. He takes it with a wry smile, slapping it over his face.

“Oikawa just _had_ to say it.” he says between sniffs, pulling the fabric tight over his eyes.

“ _You_ were the one asking him for parting words.”

Hanamaki chokes on a laugh, the mental image of Oikawa’s crying face enough to lift his spirits. “You heard that? Even over Kindaichi’s wailing?”

“You don’t exactly have much of an indoor voice yourself you know.”

“Fuck off.” Hanamaki mutters. He wipes his tears off properly and hands the handkerchief back but Matsukawa doesn’t take it, body angled to look at something in the distance.

“Do you have 100 yen?”

Hanamaki blinks. Matsukawa repeats the question, this time with his hand held out expectantly. He’s too worn out to question Matsukawa’s strange thought processes. He shakes his pockets for any coins and hands the proper amount over, curiosity spiking when Matsukawa jogs a bit ahead.

“Seriously?” is his dry question when he finally catches up. Matsukawa’s hunched over one of the crane machines lined up outside the arcade, peering at the selection. He drops the coin into the slot and the machine whirrs to life, ear-wormy techno playing from the speakers and lights blinking in a pattern Hanamaki can’t get heads or tails of. Matsukawa maneuvers the crane and presses the button without even waiting for the wobbly claw to settle.

It clamps around one of the keychains and rises into the air. It takes the tenuous trip to the prize slot and Hanamaki doesn’t even realize that he’s clutching nervously at Matsukawa’s arm until he’s shaking him off, bending to fetch his prize.

Matsukawa doesn’t stand immediately, instead he turns and pulls Hanamaki’s bag strap towards him, clipping the keychain there before Hanamaki can protest.

“For you.”

Hanamaki stares at the cream puff keychain swinging on the strap, still failing to catch up on everything. “I paid for this.”

“I won it.” Matsukawa points out, flicking the miniature replica. “It looks awfully lonely by itself, don’t you think?”

He tilts his head to the inside of the arcade, to the seemingly endless row of crane games, a sly smile on his lips.

 

-

 

Hanamaki’s not entirely sure how much money and time they spend just going through all the floors but when they step out, the headlights and streetlamps are obnoxiously bright, crickets chirping alongside the hum of engines.

They rush home, cackling as they sprint, and despite the added weight of five new keychains and a rabbit plush tucked in his bag, Hanamaki feels much, _much_ lighter.

 

-

 

When he opens the door to Iwaizumi’s room only to have a balloon burst in his face, it is only thanks to his past two birthdays that he succeeds in not screaming like a Hollywood murder victim. He doesn’t get a splash of glitter water this time but what he _does_ get is an earful of the birthday song in varying levels of enthusiasm and pitch.

Matsukawa’s in the middle with a cake cradled carefully in his hands. On either side of him, Iwaizumi’s holding the remains of a balloon in one hand and a toothpick in the other, and Oikawa’s holding up his phone, gleefully recording. Hanamaki indulges him with a smile and v-sign before turning to the cake, smirking incredulously at the eighteen candles sticking from the top.

“Make a wish, Makki!”

His eyes watch the little flames flickering, all representing a year of his life, then to his teammates— _best friends_ —surrounding him. He clenches his hands tight and it’s only then that he realizes they’re shoved in his pants. He pulls them out and takes the cake from Matsukawa.

As the song nears its end, Matsukawa playfully jerks his head to the cake between them, lips puckered. Hanamaki beats him to it, blowing until all the candles are put out. Oikawa cheers and claps and all three of them burst into another round of the birthday song. Hanamaki bobs his head awkwardly for a while, then yells in indignation when Matsukawa swipes his finger across his cheek, leaving behind a streak of icing.

“If you make a mess, you’re cleaning it up.” Iwaizumi snaps, aborting Hanamaki’s attempt to get revenge. He meekly lowers the cake and leans over to pluck a macaron off the top with his teeth, trying not to think about how, if the cake weren’t between them at the time, it seemed as if Matsukawa was leaning in for a kiss.

 

-

 

Between the four of them the cake disappears in minutes, especially since Hanamaki kept sneaking forkfuls from Matsukawa’s and Iwaizumi’s plates after inhaling his own slice. Oikawa smiles behind his fork, eyeing him reproachfully.

“You ate practically half that cake, Makki.”

Hanamaki sticks his tongue out at him. “Don’t you diss me on my birthday.”

Oikawa laughs, fond, and Hanamaki’s eyes grow wide in excitement when he stabs into the last of his cake and leans over the table to feed it to him. “Just because it’s your birthday.”

“Watch the blood sugar, gramps.” Matsukawa mumbles, near inaudible from the fork he has pinched between his teeth. Oikawa smiles and settles back onto the floor, leans to the side until he’s resting his weight on Iwaizumi’s arm.

“I think remember saying something against dissing me on my birthday?”

Matsukawa rolls his eyes. “I’m your best friend. I have rights.”

Hanamaki reaches for his bag and pulls out a thick stack of reviewers, peering at the diagrams and scribbled notes on the margins. 

“Nope, nothing about _birthday dissing_ in our best friendship contract.” he declares, flipping through the pages. Matsukawa slinks over to his side and examines the words with equal pretend-diligence, humming in consideration.

“Pretty sure it was an addendum.”

Iwaizumi scoffs. Oikawa’s gaze slides over to him and his bottom lip sticks out in a pout.

“Why don’t _we_ have a best friend contract, Iwa-chan?”

“Pretty sure we do. Me being labeled your best friend for the last ten years certainly wasn’t out of my own free will.”

Oikawa whines and moves to run away but Iwaizumi smiles, reaches out to grab him by the back of the head, and pushes him back onto his shoulder. Hanamaki thinks time freezes then, because his eyes zero in on the soft smile Oikawa hides in Iwaizumi’s shirt, the blush that colors Iwaizumi’s cheeks, the way they just sink onto each other, how Iwaizumi’s hand dips down to Oikawa’s neck.

_Oh._

“Anyway, it’s getting late,” Iwaizumi pipes up, diffusing the odd atmosphere probably without even realizing it, “get your asses home, we’ll clean up here.”

Matsukawa yawns, unfolding his legs. “Why are you being generous all of a sudden?”

“If you don’t like it then—”

“No, no, no.” Hanamaki scrambles to his feet, taking his bag and Matsukawa with him. “He likes it. Very much. Please do it more often. Everyday, if you can.”

“You wish.” Iwaizumi mutters as he walks them to the gate, Oikawa laughing behind him.

 

-

 

“You wanna bet they’re making out up there?”

“Not a mental image I wanted to have, thank you very much.”

Matsukawa grins and turns to look at the lone lit window in the Iwaizumi household, walking backwards. Hanamaki carefully watches the icy sidewalk for anything he might trip on. “ _Are_ they though?”

He shrugs, waves away the annoying voice in his head that goes _lucky them_. “With those two, you never know.” 

Matsukawa hums, pivoting mid-stride to walk like a normal person. “Does that bother you?”

“Of course not.”

“Hmm…positive-negative.” Matsukawa brings a finger up to tap his chin, squinting critically at him. “Tricky.” 

Hanamaki swipes his ankle. “You’ve seen my sister’s BL collection.”

“Just because your sister’s okay with it, doesn’t automatically mean you are.”

His treacherous brain drags him back to cramped cubicles and dark corners, boyish grins and the rough scrape of his middle school uniform against his neck, the time when he was too young, too afraid for anything more than the clumsy press of lips, the occasional stroke of a tongue.

“I’m more than okay with it.” is all he says, and when Matsukawa’s eyes grow wide in realization Hanamaki knows it’s too late to regret his words.

“Yup.” Hanamaki deadpans. “Congrats on being the only straight senior on the team.”

The awkward silence that follows is expected. Matsukawa shoves his hands in his coat pockets, eyes darting restlessly.

“Who said I was straight?”

Hanamaki’s head snaps back so fast he’s sure he’ll be feeling it for weeks to come. Matsukawa’s not looking at him, and even though half his face is burrowed in his scarf, Hanamaki can see how his ears are a vivid red.

He’d said it so quietly that Hanamaki’s not even sure if he heard right, but it’s confirmed when Matsukawa vindictively kicks snow in his direction.

“Say something, asshole.”

Hanamaki weakly puts his hands up. “You never told me!”

“Well neither did you.” Matsukawa pouts. He puts a hand over his chest, face crumpling in exaggerated betrayal. “I thought you trusted me, Takahiro!”

“I thought _you_ trusted _me_!” Hanamaki shouts back, equally dramatic. “Issei, I shared a cream puff with you!”

Matsukawa breaks character, doubling over with laughter, the easy slope of his shoulders returning with every jubilant exhale.

“We could call this one even then.” he declares, the dimple on his cheek sinking as he smirks. He goes quiet for a few moments and the slow grin that crawls up his face makes Hanamaki nervous.

“Oh god, please tell me all those arm-wrestling matches with Iwaizumi weren’t just underhanded attempts to hold his hand.”

Hanamaki charges at him with a roar. Matsukawa bolts and for the first time ever, he’s grateful for Matsukawa’s stupidly-long scarf, taking one end with each hand and pulling until it tightens around his neck, stopping him in his tracks.

“Fuck you! He’s not even my type!”

Matsukawa makes over-the-top choking sounds until Hanamaki catches up, tossing the frayed ends of his scarf in his face. 

“Then pray tell, what _is_ your type?” Matsukawa asks as they continue walking, carefully readjusting the scarf.

Hanamaki shrugs in defeat. “I had a crush on Oikawa in our first year.”

Matsukawa’s face sours. Hanamaki nods somberly.

“Well that’s embarrassing.”

“To be fair, it lasted only up until he opened his mouth.”

Matsukawa cackles. There are no crickets or cars, just the too-loud echo of his heartbeat in his ears. He’s high on Matsukawa’s acceptance, on the idea that he actually has a chance at this. The adrenaline is shooting up his veins, numbing his inhibitions.

Still, a more rational part of him knows he should shut up now, stop this before it gets any farther—it doesn’t _have_ to get any farther than this—but he can’t. He’s a hundred conversations and a thousand shared moments too late to undo his feelings, to deny the part of himself that aches for more than the sweet, friendly affection Matsukawa has always been more than willing to give.

“I had a crush on you too.”

Matsukawa stops so suddenly he almost pitches face-first into the snow. Hanamaki pulls him without thinking and all 188 centimeters and 74 kilograms of him slams back onto Hanamaki, and they tumble down the pavement in an ungraceful heap of gangly limbs and flimsy coats.

Hanamaki groans, scowling at the dampness seeping into his clothes. He tries to push Matsukawa off so he can stand but a hand comes down to pin his shoulder back onto the ground.

“Had?” 

He’s had more than two years of practice deciphering what every minute twitch on Matsukawa’s face means, but now his gaze is eerily empty, threatening to swallow him whole.

“Have.” Hanamaki rectifies. He’s already ruined it, might as well be honest until the end.

This time the silence is even worse. He can see something shift in Matsukawa’s dark eyes, far too close for comfort.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” he whispers softly, breath condensing in the winter night air, “but I’m pretty sure this counts as a confession.”

Hanamaki’s jaw clenches. “And if it is?”

Matsukawa’s eyelashes flutter as he examines his face, and whatever it is he sees makes his brows furrow. He keeps as still as humanly possible when Matsukawa stands up, already sifting for an excuse to make a run for it but Matsukawa’s hand latches on his wrist, tugging him up. He steps closer and Hanamaki reflexively takes a step back, stopping only when Matsukawa’s fingers tighten.

“What are you afraid of?”

His hands are warm, fingertips like brands searing heat against the inside of his wrist. 

“Fucking up.” Hanamaki answers steadily, and that’s all his anxieties in a nutshell, really. He doesn’t want to risk losing this, losing Matsukawa. “You’re my best friend.”

Matsukawa’s eyes soften, fondness seeping into his stern gaze. The grip loosens, but running away is the farthest thing from Hanamaki’s mind right now.

“Doesn’t that make not fucking up easier then?” Matsukawa asks, too slowly. “You already know more about me than anyone else.”

His heart jumps to his throat, his pulse thrumming so hard he thinks Matsukawa can feel it when he cradles the back of his neck, pulling him close to press their foreheads together. He’s numb, paralyzed by the feel of Matsukawa’s warm breath fanning across his face, chasing out the cold.

“If one of us messes up, we’ll talk it out like we always do.” Matsukawa says, and even with how soft his voice is, each syllable vibrates across Hanamaki’s body. “If worse comes to worse, you can take the Iwaizumi approach and throw a volleyball at me.”

“You’re going to take relationship tips from Iwaizumi Hajime? Really?” Hanamaki scolds lightly. 

Matsukawa smiles, his thumb massaging a soothing arc from the back of his ear to his neck.

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to. I’m just saying I’d say yes, if ever you asked.”

“That makes you sound so easy.”

“Only for you though.”

Hanamaki chokes on his spit, nearly banging foreheads with Matsukawa. Matsukawa is laughing, the bastard, but his hand is rubbing firm circles on his back, peppered with gentle punches to help clear his airways. 

The hand slides from his shoulder to meet his own, fingers shyly slipping into the spaces between his. He already knows the weight and shape of Matsukawa’s hand by heart but this is different, more intimate. Hanamaki flexes his hand. The foreign obstruction of Matsukawa’s fingers is fascinating; long and slender, more bone than fat and calloused around the edges.

“This is…?” Matsukawa murmurs and Hanamaki is nodding before he even finishes the question.

They walk home together, the same way they’ve done for the past two years: Matsukawa’s as quiet as ever, his headphones hanging around his neck, Hanamaki’s earphones still tangled and shoved in his pocket. Every now and then Hanamaki will turn his head and lean close to whisper a joke or two, and Matsukawa will laugh, or pretend to, just to spare his ego.

Tonight though, the air feels lighter somehow—sweeter—and Hanamaki is pretty sure it has nothing to do with the white buds preparing to bloom on the trees lining the streets and probably more to do with how they’re huddled close together, stuck from shoulder to hip, hands squished between them with fingers interlaced and palms pressed together. Matsukawa’s lips are curled upwards, the slack lines of his body evoking contentment rather than the usual aloofness.

 _Perfect_ Hanamaki thinks. _This is perfect._


End file.
